Just a lost little boy in the snow
by Shewhoisawesome
Summary: Because he never thought him evil. No, just lonely. Just a drabble I wrote to help me get back in the swing of writing, please R&R! :D


The house was cold.

Once grand halls and rooms faded and torn, their lush carpets and fine furniture heavy with the dust of centuries. Snow piling up outside, the white blanket stretching out as far as the eye could see, the house a lonely island in a sea of blankness.

Old floorboards creaked under foot, the owner of said feet following the large prints in the dust of the house's owner. Eyes glanced at the paintings hung on rusted nails to cover up the peeling wallpaper, taking in the battle scenes and the bloodshed, the military commanders and the war heroes, the cities and the barren land.

A common painting was seen throughout the display though; a field of flowers. The same field of flowers every time, the same flower, even in their faded state the flowers still seem vibrate in colour and the field so real, it's no wonder there are so many of the same painting. Almost as if the person who hung them was trying to chase away the darkness and loneliness of the building.

Of course, that probably is why.

Many bedrooms are passed on the way, all of them immaculate and polished, shiny brass plaques on each one, like the owner spent ages cleaning the doors in the hope the cleanliness might invite the room's occupants to come back. Looking inside revealed a beautifully made room every time, decorated in the country who sleeps there's colours, the bed made and soft with plush cushions and a handmade quilt. Not a speck of dust to be found anywhere.

The hallway opens out into a huge drawing room, large ornate windows making up one wall, allowing the wanderer a glance outside into the snow where flurries of flakes descended from the sky and onto the soft layer below.

This room too, is clean. Three stylish sofas arranged around a low, polished table by the fire place. Above the fireplace is the largest painting in the house, again, of the field of flowers. This one's colours are there for the world to see though, clearly having been restored many times over the years so the gold of the petals can grace the room with their light.

In the far corner of the room, away from any light, is another worn door. The door leads to another tattered hallway, stretching so far you can only just make out the double doors at the end.

This corridor is the worse. The walls feel like they're closing in, the dust suffocating, and the paintings of flowers getting more and more frequent in an almost panicking fashion. Hung precariously on old nails, hardly straight at all.

The double doors are stiff, getting caught on the torn carpet that passes below it, the dust almost tangible in the air as the room is entered.

It was once lavish and expensive, beautiful wallpaper, with a large four-poster bed with a canopy, lush chairs with hand embroidered cushions, and a thick wooden desk, polished to a mirror-like shine. But now, the carpet is faded, the bed old and rotten, the canopy ripped. The chairs sit in the corners, their cushions long gone, the desk creaks and looks like it hasn't been touched in years. The wallpaper replaced by the flowers. The flowers in every painting stretch across the walls, trying to bring comfort to the owner.

The bed has an occupant, curled up pitifully under the thick, heavy covers. Face buried in the pillows as horrible dreams race through their head.

The intruder smiles wickedly and brushes some hair from the nation's closed eyes. The country shies away from the cold touch, burrowing further into the mattress, desperately trying to find warmth in the icy sheets.

General Winter looks down on Russia.

Smiling as he turned and made his way back through the corridors of sunflowers, past the bedrooms of the Baltics and Russia's sisters. Back into the lonely entrance, and out the battered front door.

The snow swirled as General Winter gazed upon the house of the nation thought to be so evil and mad by the rest of the world.

And while the General still believes that Russia is quite, _quite_ mad. He never thought him evil.

Just lonely.

_Just a lost little boy in the snow._

* * *

**AN) Yerg, I have no idea where that came from... Probably my little hope that Russia isn't really evil. Just very insane. **

**Meh...Review please! I know I haven't updated any of my other works in FOREVER, but hopefully after my exams are over I'll be able to rectify that :P**

**Thanks for reading, and don't forget to REVIEW!**

**SWIA :D**


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